


forging

by astraholt (kicksmalfoy)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Competency Kink, Curses, F/F, Forging, Mutual Pining, Queer Historical Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26221537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kicksmalfoy/pseuds/astraholt
Summary: So, a witch does something she shouldn’t have.
Relationships: Female Village Witch/sub!Female Village Blacksmith, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: Femsub Semi-Flash 2020





	forging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatsparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/gifts).



> I know nothing about witchcraft or forging, so I tried to learn a bit in a pinch. Please forgive me if some of this is thin. I hope I at least got the yearning right.

Hell hath no fury like an entire village not so much scorned but made to feel silly by their presumptuous notions of what was their business being dismantled.

So, a witch does something she shouldn’t have. Namely, in this case, rescue the village’s crops from plant-afterlife once they had been razed by unseasonable sleet. And all hell breaks loose.

First, there was the showy plate smashing on main street. The witch in question, as it were, made beautiful painted plates that fetched a small fortune in places more grandiose than Carvoeiro. The plates in question had actually been generous gifts, gestures of friendship. All smashed to smithereens now. Enid had found it all quite silly, truly, until she saw her walking by the wreckage, eyes downcast and heavy lidded, jaw stiff and lips sharp so no signs of sorrow could be identified. Enid saw them anyways.

Often, silly people were dangerous. Enid knew this well, so even before the whispers in the village turned from ‘Did she, truly?’ to ‘We must do something about this’ she had been tending the fire, hammering the iron. She had noticed Beatriz Moura’s dainty hands and while she was a practical woman and decided to combine her skepticism about the witchcraft rumor with an implicit trust that Miss Moura could do far more harm than her appearance suggested, she chose to craft a weapon that would fit her hands and be yielded with ease. If the word was not to Miss Moura’s taste, she could always refuse the present or simply do away with later. They seemed to be having a season for that anyways.

Miss Moura resided at the edge of the village, not at a cottage, as it was common, but in a proper Hall facing the pond on one side and bordered by the river that fed it on another, orchards and spring flowers ornamenting the old residence with vivacious colors. Not very witch-like, in Enid’s opinion. The door was opened by a young maid, who attended to her and led her to the bright sitting room to wait for a tray of tea and Miss Moura. In the afternoon, sunlight ricocheted off the nearby waters and seemed to refract around the house, blinding and dizzying. Enid could have been anywhere, and in a way, it felt like she was nowhere—transported to an existence all its own, separate and unreachable. Maybe there was something witchy about Miss Moura and she could make herself perfectly safe in her ancestral home. Enid felt presumptuous, just as much so as the other villagers perhaps, in her assumption that Miss Moura might be in need of something from her. She moved to stand and leave, but in her hurry the sword toppled off her lap before she had reached for it, and it rolled on its hilt, off the cloth that had obscured and protected it and onto Miss Moura’s no doubt expensive rugs, stopping its escape not that far from purple hems ornamented with dashes of green.

“I must admit I expected a larger party for a beheading attempt,” Miss Moura said. Enid had never heard her speak, only observed her pass before the shop at times, and she couldn’t help notice Miss Moura’s words were as crisp as leaves underfoot, every letter enunciated and given special care.

Enid faced her with some guilt and plenty of embarrassment. She rushed to collect the rapier, then awkwardly presented it. She had planned to explain her intentions before this stage of what was always going to be an uncomfortable interaction, but now there was no time and all Enid could do was mitigate this awful first impression. And she couldn’t think of a way to do.

“I thought you might have need … want … wish for something of a weapon. For you own defense.”

“Oh. That sounds considerate. I am to use that myself then?”

“Yes.”

“How should I go about that? And also, why must I defend myself?”

“Well, things being a bit frenzied down at the village, I imagined it couldn’t hurt to offer it to you. As to how, you brandish it and …”

Enid held the sword by its hilt and made a brief demonstration. Miss Moura took a step back, her skin pale against the dark walking dress she wore, her blue eyes shimmering with emotions Enid couldn’t quite decipher. She realized she had probably frightened the woman, that perhaps Miss Moura hadn’t bothered going to village since the incident with the plates, and didn’t even realize there was still talk of spells and enchantments cast upon the village’s food supplies, even a vote scheduled by the town council to decided whether or not farmers should be made to burn the crops and those poorer in town should take their chances with starvation rather than risk the wrath of God being brought upon them or the ills of Satanism or something. Enid herself listened to rather less than she ought to, but she always found the village’s issues so very boring until now.

“It’s just for precaution. Until everyone forgets that idiocy about the crops being charmed back to life.”

“Thank you, Miss Billingsley.”

Enid raised her eyes in wonder that Miss Moura even knew her name, though the village was small enough that you heard gossip about everyone sooner or later. Miss Moura’s trained politeness aside, she seemed less grateful than alarmed. Enid felt foolish and looked around for somewhere to settle the blade down. She could have taken it back with her, but she didn’t want to be rude or make Miss Moura feel like obligated to show her appreciation.

Just then, Miss Moura’s reached over to take the proffered gift, but instead, either by design or error, grazed the palm of Enid’s hands with feather fingertips. An itch bloomed on Enid’s skin and she lost the ability to form any words. She could feel Miss Moura’s touch settling inside her, dense like a seed, and when Miss Moura’s lifted the sword from her arms, Enid closed her hand around it.

“Maybe it is foolish of me, but I do not believe our neighbors have the capacity to harm me. I will keep this not for them, but because it is quite beautiful and I am appreciative of your work. It seems exceedingly complex and graceful, almost an alchemy, and I am amazed that you went through all the trouble for me. I am in your debt.”

“You mustn’t worry about that.”

“I will consider myself to be so, in any case. And I thank you for the thought and the effort.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

Later, Enid chastised herself. She might not have been the most gifted with letters and conversation, but she certainly knew enough words to make an impression even on a Lady such as Miss Moura. But for some reason, she had been unable to conjure a full expressive sentence, and after Miss Moura’s had extolled her virtues at that.

Miss Moura had also invited her to stay for tea, but Enid had excused herself, saying she was needed at the shop. Given that she was the only blacksmith in town and that she owned the business, there was no one to do the needing, of course. Although business trickled in steadily, with horseshoes and other practical items accounting for enough walk-ins to justify a shop space on Main, she could hardly recall of any smithing emergencies that might occur were she not around for a few hours.

For the days that followed, Enid couldn’t shake the phantom feeling of delicate fingertips grazing her palms. Her hand would twitch, close around the memory without her meaning to, which was not the safest of dazes to have in her craft. Her hands were supposed to be reliable and all of a sudden one of them was given to whims. If that wasn’t bad enough, sometimes she would catch a glimpse of raven hair, dark-colored dresses, and her eyes would flicker towards the sight, her brain forgetting everything else for a second. Twice now, she had glanced away from the fire because of a crow. It was ridiculous.

She didn’t expect Miss Moura to come by the store, of course. She did hope to see her, but only to ascertain for herself that she was in good health, perfectly safe. Enid had rehearsed a bit of an apology for her previous behavior, but she only meant to use if there was ever an occasion. She would not come by the cottage again and she would never chase down Miss Moura. However, a sighting, no matter how small, would be comforting. The vote on burning the crops had been canceled once the farmers hired guards to stand by the crops day and night and make sure they were not interfered with. Now the village’s constables were outnumbered by an order of dozens and the militia working for the farmers was much better armed, so the town council and the Parish would need to ask the King for reinforcements if they wished to proceed.

Enid doubt any reinforcements would be had in case. The landed gentry had no intention to lose the crops and thus the rents that were due a second time. The town council had its share of landed folks, of course, but none nearly as important as those who opposed giving up the food for superstition. Still, some people were still in a tizzy, perhaps even more so now that they had been firmly told the issue was none of their business. When people drank, they got loud about their grievances and their fears, and Enid’s apartment above the shop gave her plenty to be concerned about. It would be so much better if Miss Moura had allowed her to give her a lesson or two on how best to use the rapier, but Enid wouldn’t dare suggest the intrusion now. So she waited for an appearance.

Beatriz had ordered a custom display for the rapier. She remembered her father having several cases mounted on the walls for his broadswords before his passing and it seemed like a way to honor the gift she had received without actually having to employ it. And she had no intention to ever use the sword as it had been intended. She had spent the better part of the decade since she had inherited the cottage placing an appropriate amount of nasty hexes on the vegetation and waterways surrounding her to ward herself from ill intent. Never for real harm, of course, but she did live alone since her mother passed and it was Kit’s own fault that his toenails had never grown back. Most of the hexes were only meant to disorient and redirect. He didn’t need to step on her precious night shades. They didn’t like that.

The sword didn’t quite match the décor, but Beatriz liked looking at it. She had been utterly surprised at Miss Billingsley’s audacity at first. But as it became clear that she didn’t grasp Beatriz’s joke and had been very disconcerted but still very keen on offering Beatriz the rapier, she had softened.

She didn’t like the village at the best of times, but it was home, so she had stayed. She had nowhere to go, so here she was, still, even after her neighbors had shattered the plates she had stenciled and colored for them since she had been a little girl and her mother had sat with her to teach her feminine arts. Beatriz had never taken to the embroidery or the singing, but painting she had a talent for and plates were her mother’s favorite canvas. It hadn’t been her idea to be generous to the neighbors, of course. She had always been someone who enjoyed her own company best, and her mother had tried to offset that by instilling in her a gift giving habit. If she could not show her esteem with kind words and a smile, then a thoughtful and irreplaceable offering might do.

Now, her mother’s precious china was all litter and for what? Beatriz had her own garden and no tenants in the country. She could have fed herself and her house servants a hundred times over while the town struggled through the next few seasons. She shouldn’t have done the spell. She couldn’t understand what had compelled her. It had been so reckless. She knew the dangers, after all, she had been warned by her mother countless times to hide her powers behind charm and solicitousness, to try and appear normal. But Beatriz was not a natural at maintaining appearances.

She had tried. She had gone to London, Paris, and Vienna, had rounded up her education and attended balls, had been out in Society and allowed men to court her and vie for her hand. But she always seemed unable to make the most important commitments: she had never married, had never settled in the cities she lived in, had never fully stepped into the society roles her birth could have granted her. Now she was alone and had been discovered and had little power or standing to protect her. So she strengthened the hexes instead and stayed inside her property.

She might have never left again if she hadn’t heard the servants discussing it. Miss Billingsley’s accident. It was in Beatriz’s nature to be curious. She would have been a lousy witch otherwise, since her craft required an overzealous interest in everything mysterious.

It was late Fall, post harvest. Most of the village was covered in a light frost and she was delivered to Miss Billingsley’s shop under the cover of mist (completely natural, she was never good at conjuring fog). The village’s physician was there; Beatriz could hear his voice, so she waited. She wanted no confrontations and doctors tended to be offended if she allowed herself to express her sincere belief that they were useless, so she waited among the white birch trunks, her walking dress a cream with silvery embroidery that would be unpractical for forest entreaties in normal circumstances, but that made her disappear into the scenery as she wished, kept her out of sight until the last vestiges of speaking ceased and the light became slant over the row of shops, and a lamp was lit in the blacksmith’s apartment.

Beatriz held the bundle she had prepared to her chest then and stepped forward. She was usually bold, but she did not know what to say to justify her intrusion and suddenly her mouth felt as dry as parchment. She considered leaving the bundle by the back door and returning to her home before she could be seen, but her house staff hadn’t been clear about the nature of the injury. All she knew was that Miss Billingsley had been burned, not how severe the burn was or if Miss Billingsley would be able to change her own dressings. So she knocked on the door.

The steps were slow, cautious. Beatriz hadn’t expected Miss Billingsley to have a house staff, but perhaps an apprentice or even a family member come to help. She did not expect to find herself facing Miss Billingsley herself, standing precariously on one leg while the other hovered slightly off the ground, bandaged and swollen.

“You shouldn’t be up on that,” she said, indignant, and braced herself to be told off for her reaction. It would have been deserved, of course, especially given that the reason miss Billingsley was out of bed was her, but all the younger woman did was shrug, the pale voids between her constellation of freckles flooded with a red nearly as vivid as that of her hair.

“I heard about the accident. I came to offer my assistance.”

“There is not much to do.”

“May I take a look?”

“Sure. Please, do come in. I would prepare you some tea—

“No, no. You must return to bed. Immediately.”

“Is that an order?”

Miss Billingsley asked and her sly smile insinuated some amusement, perhaps even the intimacy of a joke, so Beatriz nodded crisply, took her arm to give her some support. Miss Billingsley still wore her work shirt. Beatriz could tell because the smell of coal smoke was quite strong, almost intoxicating. From her position, she could see the strips of fabric Miss Billingsley had used to bind her chest, a more practical alternative to a corset, no doubt, but no less enticing.

This unexpected thought startled even Beatriz, who flinched and then tried to cover up her absurd behavior with a stoic mask. It didn’t seem to work, as Miss Billingsley was giving her a searching look, her gaze so probing that Beatriz felt her cheeks warming in embarrassment.

They had to climb the stairs to get to the apartment, and Beatriz worried that she had made Miss Billingsley overexert herself, but Miss Billingsley said nothing and neither did she. Since she had already caused the harm, there was nothing much she could do besides fix all of it.

The apartment had a unique smell—metallic and also smoky, but to Beatriz’s surprise it was spotless and very tidy. Only the unmade bed indicated that the small space was in use that very moment. There was no fire in the room, and yet, it felt warmer than Beatriz’s own parlor had.

Once Miss Billingsley was settled between the sheets once again, Beatriz made a gesture to ask for permission to sit at the edge of the bed. There was already a chair nearby, but she knew she would need the proximity to achieve full effect. It was unusual and a bit inappropriate, but it couldn’t be helped. Miss Billingsley seemed to consider the offer with some dread, but after a few seconds, she nodded an ascent.

Beatriz placed the bundle on her lap and busied herself unspooling the bandages the doctor had applied. She had to lift Miss Billingsley leg to accomplish that, so she palmed her ankle gently. Miss Billingsley jerked and Beatriz feared that she caused even more pain, so she stopped and apologized and was about to try and envision a different way to go about things, but Miss Billingsley whispered an apology of her own, told her to continue.

It was worse than she had imagined. The burn stretched from just above her ankle to her knee and seemed to have gone deep into the tissue. The village’s physician had applied what seemed to be an ointment with a linseed oil base. Quite useless, as she had predicted.

Beatriz unwrapped the bundle she had brought, took a gauzy strip of fabric out and wrapped around the affected area. She had already spelled it so it would absorb any substances applied to the skin, thus avoiding cross contamination. Miss Billingsley noticed the strange development, of course, so Beatriz gave her a guileless smile and said “This will soak up the excess of whatever was done here.” She was never good at dissembling, so she hoped she had at least soothed any fears related to her craft.

“Physician Silva said that without it, I might lose my leg.”

“That won’t happen. But if you don’t want to take the risk, I can reapply the ointment. I can go buy more, even.”

“No, no,” Miss Billingsley grabbed at her hand to still it. Beatriz could feel the slope of callouses on her fingers and she wanted to spell them better with her lips. “If you say it’s fine.”

“You will not lose your leg. That I promise.”

Beatriz had also prepared a new set of bandages, already packaged with her secret poultice. She placed them in position so the herbs were in direct contact with the ravaged skin and swaddled the leg slowly, whispering words of healing while she did, then sealing everything into place with a spell for speedy recovery. She was aware that Miss Billingsley was watching her, probably with distrust. She felt her skin prickle under her gaze. But while she worked she was nearly in a daze, everything else falling into a sliver of reality she could sense, but not access.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” she asked once the bandages were sealed.

“You have done enough, my Lady.”

“I have done nothing at all. Maybe I can brew some tea.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m not very hungry, but yes. If you could …”

“Yes?”

“There are some clean clothes in that trunk. I would like to change before I retire for the night.”

“Of course,” Beatriz said but felt flushed just imagining touching another woman’s garments. She didn’t know why. She imagined Miss Billingsley’s wardrobe was made of practical, durable pieces. Nothing that should embarrass either of them, no delicate petticoats or lacy corsets. When she flicked the lid of the chest open, all she saw were stacks of folded shirts and pants, most done in muslin or cotton, as she had expected. She rummaged around for a minute, trying to make sure she chose clothing that was soft, worn out, and loose and it felt strange to do something so intimate for a virtual stranger—she didn’t even look through her own wardrobe—but she felt useful to be doing it at all, and she wanted the task to be done to perfection. There was no nightgown, not that she could see anyways, but nearly at the bottom she found a long shirt that could nearly pass for one. She brought it out and held it for Miss Billingsley to see it and approve it.

“That should be fine, but …”

“Oh.”

Beatriz realized that in her state, it would be difficult for Miss Billingsley to remove the pair of pants she was wearing. It would take a great deal of effort without help and she would be excruciating pain. It would have been condemnable for her not to offer to do it, really.

“May I … I will avert my eyes.”

Beatriz started at the wooden floor, her fingers squeezing the innocent shirt until a part of it was shamefully crumpled.

“All right,” Miss Billingsley whispered and she sounded defeated. It made Beatriz wish that her craft worked differently, that she could do anything instantly and heal all ills, no matter how large, even if doing so attracted the wrong type of attention.

She inched back towards the bed, doing her best to keep her gaze settled anywhere but on Miss Billingsley. Beatriz didn’t know how much of the gossip about her the woman might have heard, and while Beatriz certainly did not want to have to disclose the other ways in which Beatriz was “eccentric”, she felt guilty for doing any of this at all without an approval born from knowledge. Her fingers stretched towards the Miss Billingsley’s waist, then retreated, and she sighed in frustration.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” Miss Billingsley said. “I can do it myself.”

“You shouldn’t. I … It’s just … I am not what most in this village would call a proper lady.”

“I am neither.”

“But what they say about me is true. It is not just my craft. I have not married and I have no intention to marry. I have no interest in a husband. I do not enjoy the company of men.”

“Who enjoys the company of men, besides most men?”

“Well, I assume some women at least tolerate it rather well.”

“I never listen to what people in this town have to say. I do not even know what they say about me, but I suppose some of it must be true as well. I do not intend to ever start wearing dresses. I find men bothersome and would rather shove my other leg in the fire than spend more than an hour in proximity with one.”

“Please, do not,” Beatriz exclaimed, but there was laughter in her voice. She hadn’t expected the revelation to go this well at all. It never did. “So, you do not mind if I help?”

“I would be very grateful if you did.”

Miss Billingsley held quiet and lifted her hips to undress herself. Beatriz rushed forward and took over, her fingers first brushing Miss Billingsley’s, then inevitably coming in contact with the swell of her buttocks as Beatriz pulled the pants off, then slid it down long legs that seemed infinite. She tried not to look, but once her knuckles brushed Miss Billingsley’s knees, she knew she had to. She would have provided no assistance at all if she was so sheepish that she disturbed the injury.

“How did it happen?”

“The burn? It was silly, really. I dropped a thong, and it was hot. It fell on me and well, you saw what it did.”

“Do such accidents happen often?”

“Not in my shop,” Miss Billingsley said with such intensity that Beatriz did not know how to respond. She eased the pants past Miss Billingsley’s ankles and folded the piece of clothing, delaying the inevitable moment when she might have to help Miss Billingsley with her top.

“I can take it from here, Miss Moura.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you. I do not know how to repay you, but thank you.”

“You do not need to repay me,” Beatriz said.

She didn’t need any repayment. Seeing Miss Billingsley walking well and without lingering issues the very next day after her visit had been the only recompense she had sought. But Miss Billingsley certainly tried. She invited Beatriz into the workshop and tried to teach her the art of forging. Beatriz was proud of her many practical skills. She was a woman who liked to face the world and solve problems. But she had not enjoyed the hot sparks flying everywhere, the loud hammering that buzzed in her ear long after Miss Billingsley had finished molding the hot metal.

After minutes inside the workshop, she was tensely curled in a corner, hands clamped over her ears, any curiosity she might have had for the craft smothered under the fine ash and black soot covering her head to toe. Miss Billingsley at first didn’t see her, she was too absorbed with trying to hammer a block of steel over the anvil and Beatriz didn’t dare distract her.

It was hypnotizing, really, to watch the red molten metal beaten into shape. It brought Beatriz an odd pleasure watching Miss Billingsley turn a piece of solid metal into living, bright organism. Despite the overwhelming surroundings, Beatriz found herself captivated and she had to control her fingers so they wouldn’t reach out and touch it.

Every time Miss Billingsley shaped the metal into something delicate but perfectly deadly, Beatriz felt a bit breathless. It was amazing how lithely the metal moved under Miss Billingsley’s sharp movements, how her muscles seemed to pulse with gathering energy which then exploded in precise swings of her hand. Beatriz could have watched her forge all day. It made that long dormant part of her prickle, beg for acknowledgement. Beatriz didn’t let it out, of course. Miss Billingsley was merely offering her friendship. Perhaps, not even that. She had cast a spell and saved her from so much pain and hardship, and it was entirely possible that Miss Billingsley just felt indebted. 

That possibility seemed to be confirmed when she offered to forge Beatriz another sword.

“Daggers are easier to curse,” Beatriz answered then, meaning it as joke.

She hadn’t expected Miss Billingsley to pull out her expensive silver and start making her one. She could only imagine the woman was eager to be done with her, so she feigned a cough, went outside.

Her lungs did seem to be struggling, even once she had access to fresh air. She could have run away. She knew it was unlikely that Miss Billingsley would follow her, not when she was in the middle of forging. But her body felt tied to the wall she was leaning against, almost as if the vines embroidered on her skirts had come to life and imprisoned her. The wall itself seemed to shudder with the hammering, sending pulses through Beatriz’s entire body until she could no longer resist the pull and returned to the workshop.

Miss Billingsley looked up from her forge for just a moment, but her eyes lit up over Beatriz and she drew closer, though not too close, still heeding to the safety warning she had received, but also still smarting from the scare of being swarmed by sparks.

“Tell me about it,” she yelled over the noise. “Just a bit. So I’ll know what you are doing.”

“Right now, I’m drawing,” Miss Billingsley yelled back, to Beatriz’s confusion. “I’m trying to make this piece of metal thinner, because it will be the blade, so it must be slender.”

Beatriz nodded her understanding and returned to her corner, from where she sometimes raised her voice to draw some more explanations out of Miss Billingsley. She did her best to wait until she stopped hammering and was less busy, though Miss Billingsley did not at any point seem bothered. If anything, her voice seemed to become lower and more honeyed the more Beatriz took an active interest in her work.

Beatriz did not expect her to be finished with the dagger that afternoon, but by the time the light started slanted, there it was, nearly done. Beatriz was amazed. Her craft involved far more of waiting and observing.

“I still need to work on sharpening the blade, of course, and the hilt needs to be reworked some until it is the perfect size,” Miss Billingsley explained, noticing her awe, and drew close. She took Beatriz’s hand and spread her fingers, then placed her now ungloved palm over it. Her skin was so hot, Beatriz felt scorched for a second. “Now that I know what size your hand is, it will be easier.”

“Oh.”

Beatriz immediately chastised herself for being foolish to imagine the gesture was anything but business, and tried to withdraw her hand from Miss Billingsley’s grip. But Miss Billingsley’s held her tighter, lifted Beatriz’s fingers so her lips could brush it. Beatriz shuddered, perhaps even swayed a bit. It is a testament to the moment that she does not remember exactly, and might even have been faint for a second or two.

“May I walk you home?”

“Yes, you may,” she responded and she sounded as breathless and she felt.

Miss Billingsley smiled at that, but not a haughty smile. Her smile was tender, affectionate, and Beatriz found herself bringing her fingers to the other woman’s strong jaw and leaving a caress there.

The journey was much too short, even the danger of villagers who might possibly still fear and hate Beatriz forgotten while they walked the path, striding closer together than was perhaps appropriate, but not nearly as close as Beatriz would have wished.

Later that night, in the deep chill of her room, she slipped her hand between her legs, conjuring the heat of the workshop, the sight of Miss Billingsley’s muscles contracting in effort, the way her hands worked with precision to carve the shapes she wanted. The glimmer of her reflection on her new blade flashed in her mind’s eye. She had to do very little. A brief caress to her little button was all it took. The memories alone did the rest.

Enid had to spend more time in the workshop than was advisable, especially after an injury. But the burn hadn’t come about so much because she was tired as it did because she was curious. She shouldn’t had let the voices outside the store steal her attention, but they had mentioned Miss Moura and lately Enid’s heart would quicken anytime the name was uttered in her vicinity. She had not forgotten the fear and hate the villagers had exhibited after the storm. She could not.

She also felt a need to finish this project for Beatriz and the feeling had nothing to do with whether or not Beatriz had healed her in an astonishing manner. Though it had certainly made Enid feel even more attached to the woman, to the point where they spent so many hours together that when Enid was asked to call Beatriz by her first name, it had come naturally. The truth was that Enid had not known Beatriz when she had forged her a sword. It had been an impulsive project, one that Beatriz had taken in stride, but Enid had been back to the cottage and it was impossible to miss that while Beatriz loved her gift—she had given it place of pride in her sitting room—she had no use for it. Enid was not sure if the dagger would be anymore useful. She was certain Beatriz had been sort of joking when she suggested it. But she could not shake the drive to replace the first present with something more appropriate. Something Beatriz might cherish for itself, not because of the underlying kindness of the gesture.

It helped, though she was loathe to admit it even to herself, that Beatriz had accepted her invitations to the workshop. When Enid felt Beatriz’s gaze caressing her over and over, it was difficult not to wish for the project to go on forever. Certainly, Beatriz would not want to be around while she forged thongs and other tools. It was not exciting. It was work and Enid tried to do her tasks fast and efficiently. The dagger, on the other hand, was pleasure, and she enjoyed every break to explain her techniques, every pause to show Beatriz the progress they had made, every opportunity to lose herself in Beatriz’s dark, inquisitive eyes. 

Enid had forged two types of blade at first, one for a traditional stiletto dagger and another for a cinquedea, an item she only knew how to forge because her father had been an enthusiast of Italian blacksmithing and had tried to recreate this item from his collection countless times. The cinquedea was heavy and hard to maneuver, mostly an artistic piece. But she decided not make any assumptions about how the gift would be used this time and ask Beatriz what she would prefer. Beatriz had run her delicate fingers over the still dull blades, and chosen the stiletto.

“A curse is best when compressed before release,” she had said with a smirk and Enid had nodded, still not knowing if she should take this seriously.

She did not know what to expect as an answer, truly, when she proposed “May I watch you cast the curse when the dagger is ready?”

But Beatriz had blushed, her beautifully golden skin tinted the color of sunset, and agreed, and now Enid found herself walking in the path under the full moon, carrying the properly carved and adorned blade in her pocket. Beatriz must have been waiting, because she opened the door before Enid was at her doorstep.

Enid halted, taking in the sight of her. She had worn a delicate white dress with tiny leaves embroidered along her cleavage. Enid did not know if the choice was significant or not; she had forgotten to ask if she needed to dress in any particular way for this and now she felt silly because she was wearing her usual clothes, just slightly more dressed up with a vest and jacket.

But all Beatriz did was wave her closer and start collecting objects that had apparently been prepared and set out by the door. Enid rushed to help her and grabbed an enormous red candle from her, leaving Beatriz with papyrus and parchment leaves with her and a pen. Beatriz smiled at her in amusement, clearly telling her she was silly, but Enid figured that was better than Beatriz’s eyes telling her she had done something wrong. 

“Shall we go into the woods?”

“You tell me.”

“We shall.”

Beatriz led the way, straying from the path immediately and orienting herself by the strong moonlight, making Enid wonder if her desire for a full moon had less to do with the curse they were setting and more with practical matters, like finding their way. She chose a spot that was not quite a clearing, but where the trees were sparser and the increasingly bare branches offered them access to the sky.

Enid placed the candle down and helped Beatriz light it, and they sat down over the weeds and wild brush. Enid handled Beatriz the dagger, and she unwrapped with utmost care, gave a little gasp when she saw the final result, ran her fingertips over the silver like she was petting a cat.

“So what does the curse do?”

“Well, I pondered if I wanted the spell to block harm, ward off danger or repel bad intentions …”

“What is the difference?”

“The spells would be different. Because some magicks don’t go on the offensive and some do. If done right. It is, however, a bad idea to set loose a spell that goes on the offensive without provocation or good reason.”

“You speak as if they have a will of their own.”

“They often do. If you put out something evil, it will be attracted to evil. If you are the only source of evil close by, that evil curse will find its way back to you. It’s inevitable. Like attracts like.”

“How did you get rid of the villagers then?”

“I just ward myself and those I care about with protection spells and they keep them at bay.”

“So what was your decision?” 

“I know you have worries and I respect your opinions, so I decided a little more offense is necessary. The curse will repel those who wish us harm. When they will start to think of us, they will find their thoughts wandering, their attention impossible to pin down.”

Beatriz’s pen was already filled with ink and as she started writing names of villagers on a small, square piece of papyrus, her words shone green under the moonlight, almost as if reflecting the backwoods surrounding them.

“Would you like to add some?”

Enid accepted the papyrus and scanned for the names of those who she knew were still expressing ill feelings towards Beatriz. They were nearly all there, to her surprise.

“I may not leave the house often, but the servants do.”

“I don’t know why I ever thought you needed my help defending yourself.”

“Did you? Think that. Or did you see the whole village turn on me and decided you would not?”

“Why would I ever turn on you? Most of our neighbors are just dense.”

“They are also right. I am a witch.”

“They should be worshipping you for that, not having cross words about it behind your back.”

“Careful. Sending worshipping energy out in the world can also have unintended consequences.”

“Well, it would have been best if you had told me that some time ago.”

Beatriz released a giggle, a sound Enid had never imagined coming from her, but that was so delicious Enid would be from now on enamored of all giggles. She folded the papyrus closed, then wrapped a clean piece of papyrus around it, then touched it to the red candle she had brought. The paper combusted fast, the flames devouring it so fast they were soon nipping at Beatriz’s fingers, but she paid it no mind and ran the blade of the dagger through the fire again and again, whispering, over and over “As for anyone who shall think of bringing harm to this house, these persons, this village, they will be nowhere and their house will be nowhere and their mind will eat at itself until they are of no mind.”

When there was nothing left but a bit of ash, Beatriz dug a small hole in the earth, swept the ash in and placed the dagger inside. She covered the object with dirt and pressed her hands over the burial site and said “May those who mean no one no harm walk beyond the reaches of any evil, drawing all the luck away from the undeserving” seven times.

She straightened up and tilted her face towards the moon, her face so serene, Enid would not have been shocked if the ritual had brought a change in her, made her less woman and more Goddess. She certainly seemed to be reading Enid’s thoughts because her lips stretched into a satisfied smile.

“Come,” she said, standing with grace of a predator.

In other circumstances, Enid would have asked where Beatriz wanted them to go, but the words evaporated before they could leave her lips. She didn’t care, at any rate. She realized with a startle that she trusted Beatriz completely.

Beatriz took her hand and led her into a proper clearing. Here, the light seemed to gather on the birch tree trunks, trapping them inside a circle of gentle light.

“Show me,” Beatriz whispered, commanding but still with a hint of begging in her voice.

“Show you what?”

“Your worshipping.”

“What should a proper worshipper call you, Miss Moura?”

“Not _that_. I do not like that.”

“You let me call you that for months!”

“You seemed keen on keeping some distance between us, and I respected that.”

“I thought formality would be best.”

“Well, formality is acceptable, I suppose. But if you want me to feel worshipped, you will have to work on your subservience. Miss Moura is just too impersonal. It does not make me think you want me and what is the point of reverence without yearning?”

“Indeed,” was all Enid managed to say, her mouth drying at the significance of what Beatriz had just allowed.

Since the night Beatriz healed her, there had been a marked difference in their relationship. It had only been their second encounter, but Enid had not been able to contain the truth then, not after Beatriz had confessed so much. And yet, for all their relationship had burned and melted and hardened into something entirely new since then, neither had dared to be this explicit about what they wanted from each other. The fact that they were both of the same mind when it came to men (and women) did not mean Beatriz’s heart beat in the same frequency as hers. Or so, Enid had thought. She had accepted that they were to be friends, but she hadn’t dared hope that her hunger was reciprocated.

“My Witch, then.”

Beatriz’s lips curled up in amusement, but Enid’s fear did not loosen its grip on her heart.

“I cannot be yours, I’m afraid,” Beatriz said and Enid nodded, a bit dizzy, understanding that Beatriz’s words meant that it had all been a game and she had played it wrong. “Not until you are mine.”

Enid blinked, staggered by the change in directions, her brain struggling to keep up.

“And how does one go about becoming a witch’s possession?”

“Well, we already have the proper moon, so it should be a simple ritual.”

Beatriz’s hands went to her back and a few seconds later her dress started falling off her slim frame, showing that Beatriz had nothing but a silk slip under it, which was very much not the norm for a woman of her station. Of course, Enid was familiar with that particular rebellion. She was also wearing very little that could be deemed ladylike under her masculine robes.

“Your turn,” Beatriz said, her voice suddenly honeyed and deep in a way Enid had never heard it before.

Enid removed her jacket so fast, she was surprised she didn’t hear the telltale sound of tearing. She wasn’t any more careful with the rest of her clothes. Once all that was left was her shirt, Beatriz stepped forward and grabbed the fabric possessively, then undid the buttons one by one, her long, delicate fingers moving with the leisure only afforded by surety.

Enid’s clitoris swelled between her folds and she felt the first signs of wetness blooming against the cold air, but she did not move closer to could feel Beatriz’s warmth. She stayed still, inhaling the soft scent of lavender and jasmine coming from Beatriz, watching her dexterous fingers releasing her shirt until it could be shrugged off Enid’s body. Enid hadn’t bound her chest that night. She hadn’t needed a reason, she had just felt like being free for once. Now, she felt glad there was one less encumbrance. Beatriz shifted so their bodies were in contact, their skin brushing but not quite pressed together. It made Enid shiver in anticipation and need.

“Take this off,” Beatriz said, motioning at the slip.

Enid grabbed the hem and lifted it oh so slowly, her knuckles stroking the curves of Beatriz’s hips and causing ripples that Enid could see in her eyes. When the slip was bunched up around Beatriz’s breasts, Enid stretched her thumbs, let them rub against the sensitive skin, the pebbled nipples.

Once she was also nude, Beatriz turned around, gathered her dark hair in her hand and pulled it off one shoulder.

“Start here,” she said, fingers delineating a spot on the back of her neck. “With your lips, show me your worship.”

Enid did not have to think much about it. All she had to do was remember Beatriz practicing her magic minutes before, or healing Enid’s leg overnight. Her calm and gentleness, the way she was so powerful and so sure of her capacities, but ever inconspicuous. Enid’s devotion pulsed inside her, stronger even than her arousal (though that threatened to overtake her as well), and she kissed Beatriz’s skin with the utmost devoutness, her lips leaving a trail down Beatriz’s spine until her knee threatened to buckle and Enid had to place an arm around her.

But Beatriz removed the support and then lowered herself onto the ground. She lied on the dirt and stumped grass, illuminated, and spread herself open, using two fingers to reveal that most secret of places. Without needing to be told or ordered, Enid kneeled and used her mouth to expound on the subject of her worship of this woman. She kissed and licked and sucked on that little nub, until Beatriz moaned and writhed and spoke words that were impossible to understand but seemed to crackle in the air around them. Enid ‘s body felt charged, but she did not stop until Beatriz said her name. Enid lifted her head and let herself be intoxicated for a second by the sight of Beatriz like this, face transformed, pupils dilated, hair already messed up.

“Yes, my Witch?”

“Incantation is at the root of all magic, even sex magic. If you want to will it into being, you need to say it. Speak your worship.”

Enid nodded, understanding the request, even if she had no idea what ‘sex magic’ was, and replaced her mouth with her fingers, rolling Beatriz’s little bundle between her digits, slipping a finger inside her and thrusting against the clenching muscles. She saved her curiosity about the fundamentals for later. While she was never one for fancy words, she had listened closely to Beatriz earlier and felt that the key was to just state things clearly.

“I hold you in reverence and I hold you in friendship and I hold you in affection. And I hold you lightly, so that you are free.”

She exhaled, seeking more words, because when she was talking the world had seemed to stay still while also becoming crisp with energy. Enid felt power circling her and licking at her. She felt uniquely alive when she was forging, but this was different, less like her bending nature to her will and more like she was finally speaking its language. But Beatriz lifted a finger to silence her and instructed “Again.”

So Enid repeated her invocation and she pumped her fingers in and out of Beatriz, and when the power whirling around her felt unbearable, her fingers bent inside Beatriz, and Enid felt rather than heard her scream, and she saw in her mind’s eye rather than saw the ripples of her orgasm overtaking her body.

Sweat streamed into her eyes, hinting at an effort she wasn’t aware she had made. In fact, once she paid attention to herself, Enid realized that she was sore and tired and her abdomen was contracting as if she had been the one to orgasm. She even felt that signature high.

Beatriz extended her hand and tugged her to lie down next to her. She looked radiant, like she was of the forest and the forest was of her and what they had done was nothing more than another natural event.

“Did I do that right?” Enid asked.

Beatriz laughed, her laughter deep and rumbling, thrumming through both of their bodies at once. She rested her face against Enid’s breast and said “I think we should do the ritual a few more times, just to be sure.”


End file.
